Phantom
by alaricnomad
Summary: Peter/Claire. S2. "...the utter completion of having her in his arms, and Peter knew he’d finally chased down that elusive feeling he’d wanted so badly." Peter finally finds his way home. ONESHOT.


**--Phantom--**

When a man called Nathan Petrelli came barreling into his small Montreal apartment, claiming him as his brother and demanding he come home to New York, Peter wasn't sure what emotion he felt stronger: his utter bewilderment at the situation, or the fact Caitlin refused to come back with him. The rejection stung, but he couldn't help but wonder why part of him felt nothing but relief.

It wasn't long before his impression of Nathan was of a gruff but caring individual, affectionate with him (despite the fact Peter couldn't even remember the man) but not one to be blatant with his emotions. It was an oddly endearingly contrast of personality, and Peter quickly found he didn't mind so much that the other man was being particularly touchy-feely- a hand on his shoulder, grabbing his arm to guide him through the busy airport, idly brushing a hand through his hair or touching fingers to his as they waited for their flight to board.

The best Peter could figure was that his brother was striving to grasp that Peter was real and not some figment of his imagination. He had, after all- as Nathan had explained- thought his baby brother dead for the past six months. After a two-hour delay that had both men just the right side of grouchy, Nathan half-bullied, half-caroled him onto the plane, and they jolted about with the roughness that was take-off, Peter grasped so tightly at the armrests his knuckles turned white, squeezing his eyes shut.

His brother had only laughed (_brother_, Peter was still marveling at that fact, and he found he liked the laugh of this otherwise serious man…his brother…), commenting wryly that some thing never changed. It seemed that he never seemed to mind taking flight with Nathan through New York skies, but he'd always harbored a fear for flying (airline style, of course). Ironic.

The next month in New York was even lonelier than those first few days in Cork, half-scared out of his mind without memory or insight into whom he was, why he was there, or the knowledge behind the strange abilities he seemed to be manifesting one by one.

Now that Nathan had his brother back, he coddled over Peter for about a week, and then abruptly seemed content to let the younger man fade into the background, as long as Nathan knew him to be solidly there and safe. His mother wasn't much help either. She'd greeted him initially with hugs and tears of relief, and then seemed to withdraw both physically and emotionally as abruptly as the next day. It confused Peter, though it hurt less than he thought it should. He didn't remember her, after all.

It was a couple weeks before he met his sister-in-law and nephews. He'd been told he got along well with Nathan's wife, and though she was startled but genuinely happy to see him, it quickly became clear that her and Nathan's fumbling attempts at a reunion occupied her attention. Things didn't go much better with Simon and Monty; both boys were too young to really understand the reasons behind Peter's absence, and they'd spend time poking and prodding at him like some strange alien. Peter felt more than a little awkward; neither child saw much of their warm, playful uncle in the man before then, and quickly lost interest.

Consequently, Peter spent most of his time haunting the family home like some ghost. The Petrelli manor was a cold, intimidating behemoth, and he was never anything short of uncomfortable there. It only made matters worse than Nathan discouraged Peter from ever really leaving the house. They dressed him up like some Ken doll in tuxes and suits, dragged him to functions that smelled too highly of alcohol and expensive perfumes and cigars, parading him around to make pointless conversation and smile for camera snapshots that hurt his eyes.

Had this really been his life?

Something was missing, so part of him that fit into that empty space inside of him, something he was sure could dispel that longing, aching feeling and made him complete again.

He rummaged through old photo albums and the boxes from his old apartment, searching desperately for bits and pieces that would finish the puzzle, tell him something…_anything_…to give him a clue to this life that just didn't feel like his.

One afternoon, he came across a handful of pictures he didn't recognize. They all had one thing in common: the girl.

Brief, brief flashes…finally, memory. She was sunshine (golden blonde curls and brilliant, shining smiles), she was springtime (eyes as green as clovers and warm and soft the breeze), she was the night and the day (soft, soft skin as he touched her cheek, the smell of vanilla against his sheets where'd she slept the night before after he refused to banish her to the couch, slender fingers tangling through the jet-black of his hair as she ruffled it), but most of all, she was the thing that had him shifting inside, knowing she was the key he had been searching for.

He rounded on Nathan the moment he came home that night, demanding answers, any explanations he could get. He was stunned a bit when he learned she was his niece, felt a little better when Nathan pointed out they had only met the year before, swelled with pride as he heard the story of how he saved her life, and later, she his.

Snatching Nathan's credit card, Peter put himself on the first flight to California he could get.

To say he was nervous the moment he knocked on the Butlers' front door was the understatement of a lifetime or two or ten. Within five minutes, he was welcomed inside by with a polite but forced smile by Mrs. Bennet, informed Claire was still at school due to cheerleading practice, but he was welcome to wait.

Peter sat in the living room, idly fiddling with his fingers as he wished he could bury his head in a hole until Claire came to save his sorry behind. Noah Bennet was home from work half-an-hour after he'd arrived, and he sat silently on the coach across from Peter, regarding the younger man with a suspicious, flat-eyed stare. Claire's brother- Lyle, he thought his name was- sat in front of the TV hell-bent on beating his own high-score at some video game, blood and gore and big swords. He'd been intrigued at first with Peter's appearance, but like the boys in the empath's family, quickly lost interest once Peter made it clear he wasn't eager to show off any powers.

There was a sudden opening and closing of a door, an exclamation that she was home, and Peter's head snapped up just in time to see her waltz into the room. She set down her gym bag, stretched, and sighed out a complaint of how hard practice had been. She wasn't in uniform like he would have expected, but casually outfitted in a pink tee, old snickers and low-riding sweatpants that didn't do her curves the justice they deserved. Peter was busy cursing the way his body tightened and heated up at the sight of a barely-legal blood relation. But the moment she looked up from unknotting her shoe laces and finally spotted him, all coherent thought flew out the window.

She was beautiful, so beautiful; the moment she choked out his name his name and flung herself into his embrace, time seemed to stop all together.

"Claire."

She was crying, and he found himself doing the same. He bent down to kiss her dampened cheek, first one and then the other, repeating again, and she reciprocated by kissing him chastely against the mouth, salt from their shared tears bitter against his lips. She snuggled into his shoulder, clutched at him tightly, and whispered to him again and again how much she had missed him.

The warmth of her body, the sweet smell of vanilla, the utter completion of having her in his arms, and Peter knew he'd finally chased down that elusive feeling he'd wanted so badly.

No longer a phantom or a ghost or an enigma, he finally (finally!) felt wholly, utterly real.


End file.
